The Story of You and Me (11 page)

“Okay. I’ll keep the foot. I’m finally unpacking the last of the boxes and settling into my new home.”

Duh. What was I thinking? Moving was a huge life transition, a shock to anyone’s system. Especially someone older, in their seventies. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I should have been there to help you.”

“You’ve got your own important things going on. Have you met new friends?”

“I think.”

“Be nice to them. Don’t be cactus-Sophie.”

“I am not cactus-Sophie!”
 

“Sweetie, you are beautiful. Strong. Resilient. A little prickly—like a cactus. You get that from my side of the family,” she said. “Don’t apologize for it. Just be aware of it.”

“Okay.” I knew she was totally right. “Have
you
met any new friends?”

“Yes!” She coughed deeply. “Hold on.” She coughed some more. Blew her nose. “Damn allergies.” She sighed.

“Are you okay?”

“Never been better! I have met new friends here, but they speak a foreign language. Because life is regrettably, short, I’ve decided to immerse myself in Berlitz to learn their foreign tongue. I hope to be able to converse with them in a more authentic fashion.”

“Nana, that’s awesome,” I said. “What language are you learning? Spanish? Italian? Chinese? Where are they from?”
 

“Skokie, Illinois, my bubbelah.”

“You’re learning Yiddish?”

“It’s a mitzvah, I tell you. Learning new things keeps one young. We’ll see each other soon. Oh, I got a couple of charges for—”

“Are you still okay with that?” I asked. “Me going to the healers?”

“Stop asking,” she insisted. “You are young and following your dream. I want you to have that.”

She was astute, but she hadn’t figured it out yet. Which was a good thing.

“But—”

“No buts, Sophie. We’ve already had this conversation. You need to be exactly where you are, doing precisely what you’re doing. I must go. Esther Rosenstein is hosting a game of cards. I asked what I could bring and she suggested I give her a holler.”

I shook my head and smiled. “Challah, Nana. It’s a kind of yummy bread. I’m guessing she wants you to contribute some snackies. Have fun. I love you.”

“I love you too, my favorite granddaughter.”

I hung up the phone. I felt sad and happy and nostalgic all at the same time. And then I felt grateful I was here in L.A. On my journey.

* * *

Alex drove me to some more appointments: a yoga class where we breathed and examined our every movement, body posture, joint alignment and then chanted funny words. It felt wonderful and I felt incredible the day after this class: no twitches. No leg weakness. No lethargy. I wanted to go back as soon as possible.

But the next day I was scheduled to be at the generic waiting room at the vanilla medical center waiting to get my dreaded, ear-killing MRI done. They wanted to ensure that the stem cells hadn’t turned from good to bad. Because apparently, stem cells could be deceptive.
 

These cells that were meant to be potential healers could once in a while morph into monsters that could form tumors that would further disable or even kill people that were getting them. That included me. Yeah, life was a laugh a minute in L.A. as I lay on the imaging tube, was shuttled into the MRI tunnel and tried not to grimace through the machine gun and explosion noises as the medical device took pictures of my spinal cord. My mind desperately needed to escape from this freaking hellhole and that’s when I thought about him. To be honest, started to obsess a little about him.

He was not only impossibly cute, but we seemed to have some strange connection. I knew this wasn’t right. I knew I shouldn’t be doing this. I hesitated. But finally gave in to my desires. I was out of the tube, yanking my clothes back on in a tiny hospital cubicle while I picked up my phone and hunted down the number.

I called as soon as I exited the USCLA medical building, walking on concrete paths that wound around the brick buildings and green grassy landscapes.

“Patsy’s Pet Store and Exotic Creatures Emporium. My name’s Patsy. How can I help you?”

“Hey, Patsy,” I said. “I saw your Kitten Adoption sign in the window about two weeks ago. There was a longhaired, black kitten that was up for adoption. I’m sure he’s already found a great home. But I had to call and check on him. Just in case.”

“Oh. You’re talking about Napoleon,” she said.

“Huh?”

“The bossy, black, long-haired, male fuzzball who thinks he’s the ruler of an empire?”

“That totally sounds like him.” I smiled. “He’s obviously been taken.”

“No,” Patsy said. “You do know that black and tuxedo cats have a tougher time being adopted than other kitties?”

“No.” I shook my head. “Why?”

“Old-fashioned superstitions… Juan!” Patsy hollered. “Do not let Mr. Tweets out of his cage! He acts all nice and sweet, but he’ll fly off on a moment’s notice and try to attack the lovebirds. Keep his cage door shut!”

“Yikes,” I said. “Sounds like you’ve got a lot going on. Does that mean Napoleon’s still at your store?”

“Sorry for the bird drama,” Patsy said. “In regards to the kitten you’re calling about? No one wanted Napoleon. Store policy. We sent him to West L.A. Animal Shelter a couple of days ago.”

“But, but….” my palms broke into a sweat. “Is that a kill shelter?”

“Sorry, yes.” She screamed, “Juan! Mr. Tweets just attacked my hair! You let him out—”

I hung up the phone and hit one number.

“Bonita! What’s up? Need a ride? I’ve got plans with the guys this afternoon. I promised. I can’t break it. I can do sometime tomorrow afternoon. Or the day after? Where do you want to go? What do you want to do? More research?”

My heart sunk. For some reason I thought Alejandro and I were cool, on the same page. Like—he’d always be there for me. Because, so far he had. But no one can
always
be there for someone else. That’s a fairytale. And my life definitely wasn’t a fairytale. “Can’t wait. It’s urgent,” I said.

“How urgent?” he asked.

“Walking out my door and headed to the bus, urgent,” I grabbed my purse, keys, strode out my door and slammed it shut.

“Shit. I—” Alex said.

“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “I’ll handle it.”

“I’ll call you—”

“Thanks.” I hung up. Things needed to get done. Things that couldn’t wait for one guy, or one hospital. One research study. One alternative healer.
 

Sometimes you couldn’t wait, because the only way things would get done? Would be if you did them yourself.

* * *

I was back on the Big Blue Bus that headed toward Venice. I’d researched where the West L.A. Shelter was—Pico Avenue, approximately where Ocean Park Boulevard dead-ended a few blocks from it. I checked my phone. Four thirty p.m. This time I had to get there before closing time—5 p.m. Because this time the price for punctuality wasn’t a charge on a credit card. This time the stakes were life or death.
 

My phone buzzed and I glanced down. It was Alex and I picked up. “What?”

“I’m in my Jeep. I’m driving. I’ll pick you up. Where are we going?”

“Where am
I going?
”

“Okay. Where are you going?”

“West L.A. Animal Shelter.”

“Why?” he asked.

“I can’t really talk right now.” I hesitated, my index finger poised over the disconnect button.

“Don’t hang up! I know where it is. I’m like a mile from there.”

“I’ve got to get there before five p.m. Or they’ll kill my cat.”

“I didn’t know you had a cat?”

“I didn’t, either.”

“What’s it look like?” Alex asked.

“He’s black, fuzzy, round, about ten weeks old. His name is Napoleon. He thinks he’s the king of the universe.”

“I like him already, Bonita. Must drive fast. Hanging up now.”
 

Chapter Ten

The bus stuttered to a stop a couple blocks away from the shelter. I’d relinquished my seat ahead of time, made my way to the front of the bus and clung to one of the poles near the exit door. But six people didn’t care as they pushed and squirmed past me. I checked my phone. 4:53 p.m.
 

The bus driver opened the doors. But the pushy people suddenly became the slow-to-exit people and I didn’t have the benefit of time.

“Excuse me! I have an emergency!” I shoved my way past several large men and elbowed a few surly teens as I tripped down the bus’s stairs. “Sorry!”
 

I ran down the few blocks to the shelter. My heart was pounding as I reached the front door. Yanked on it. But it was already locked.

I looked down at the hours printed on the door.
 

“Open Monday through Friday 11 a.m. to 5 p.m. Sat. 11 a.m. to 4 p.m.”
 

I grabbed my phone. The time read 4:57 p.m. I pressed my face against the glass door. Saw a reception desk. But no one was behind it. I heard barking and howling coming from the dog section of the shelter. I pounded on the door. “It’s not five p.m. You cannot close your doors before you state that you will close your doors! That’s just plain wrong!” I hollered. “Help!” I slammed my fist on the door over and over again.

A petite woman around thirty years of age, with multi-colored hair, wearing beat-up scrubs and earbuds exited the side of the building and whistled along to a song.

“Hey!” I yelled to her and waved my hands in the air.
 

She pulled the buds out of her ears. “Can I help you?”

“Yes! I’m here to rescue a kitten before he’s euthanized. I got here on time, but the front doors are already locked and frankly this is freaking me out, because you shouldn’t lose your life if help arrives in time. And you shouldn’t have to die if help arrives at the last minute or is perhaps just a little bit late.”

“I agree,” she said. “The early door-locking thing? That’s Mr. Littleton’s doing. He volunteers here. Has for years. Which is great. But whenever he’s in charge he closes the front door five minutes early. I think he has a small penis and this is his way of showing that he is important, like the ruler of his universe or something. I’m not supposed to do this, but what the hell.” She motioned to me with a small wave of her hand. “Come with me.”

* * *

“My name’s Sadie.” I heard a cacophony of barking as she unlocked and opened the door to the shelter’s side entrance next to the dog wing.

“I’m Sophie. Nice to meet you and thanks.” My heart was pounding as I tried to catch my breath.

“Back at ya.”

We walked past dogs of all descriptions: mongrels, old dogs, puppies, small ones, huge ones. “They’re all up for adoption?” I asked.

“Some,” she said. “Others are scheduled for euthanasia.” She bit her lip.

“How do you deal with this? Because I couldn’t.”

“I deal because I know I can help rescue a lot of lives. The other part? I don’t deal with it all that well.”

We walked past a pen that held a skinny, but at the same time bloated, Rottweiler mama who lay on her side, looking exhausted while five squirming puppies sucked on her engorged nipples. “What’s going to happen to them?” I asked.

Sadie sighed. “We’re pretty confident we can adopt out all the puppies. If we’re lucky, perhaps the adoption gods will smile on us and someone will still want the mama
 
after she’s spayed.”

Moments later we were in the pound’s cat wing standing in front of a small wire cage located two tiers up from the ground. A paper sign stuck in a little slot in the cage read, “Napoleon. Feline. Mix-Breed. Longhaired. Color: Black. FIV Neg. FeLV Neg. Age: Ten weeks.
Status
: Relinquished.
Reason
: Did not sell at pet store.”

There were two little bowls. One had some dry food at the bottom. The second some water. There was a tiny box with a sprinkling of cat sand. But there was no black, fuzzy kitten with a badass attitude. “Where is he?” I asked.

Sadie shrugged and looked at her feet.

“No,” I said. “There’s no way this kitten is being killed.”

“I don’t know,” Sadie said. “Maybe he was adopted out?”

“Oh, screw that.” I stomped my foot. “Take me to the room where they do the euthanasia.”

“I can’t,” Sadie said.

“You have to. Now.”

“I can’t, Sophie. I’m sorry. I’d lose my job. I’d never be able to help another animal here, ever again. I know this totally sucks. But you cared. You cared enough about another being that you totally went out of your way to help. If there’s such a thing as karma, I think you scored major points.”
 

I started crying. Just a little. I couldn’t help it. I plopped down cross-legged on the floor in front of Napoleon’s stupid empty abandoned cage, wiped tears away as they slipped from the corners of my eyes. I wondered why I was so freaking selfish about my journey here in Los Angeles that I couldn’t, actually I
wouldn’t,
let someone else’s journey make a dent in my plans. Especially that of an innocent. I was a selfish, coldhearted person and now Napoleon was dead because of me.

“It’s okay,” Sadie said. “Seriously. I swear I cry about two times a week here, too.” She tugged on my arm. “But I need to get you out of here before I lose my job.”

I got up and followed her down the corridors that smelled of harsh cleaners, animal pee and poop, all the while more disgusted with myself than any of the odors.
 

I made it back to the bus. Found a seat in the back and hunched over nauseous. Then we hit rush hour traffic. Two hours later I exited my stop and walked home, sniffling the whole way.

I rounded the lemon trees and saw the rose bushes with their thorns. Alex was sitting on my front stoop, his arms stretched in front of him while he actively warded off Gidget who kept lunging toward him.
 

Cole stood a couple feet away. “Gidget, my darling,” he said. “Come to papa.”

Gidget turned, bared her teeth and growled at him.

“You need to put your dog on a leash.” Alejandro kept his arms extended, keeping the dog at bay.

Cole glared at him like he’d said, “I pronounce that you’re a witch and I will now burn you at the stake. And your little dog too.”